Hello hello! How is everyone? I see some new faves and subscribers on the roster; thanks, guys! Sorry for the long break for such a short chapter, but this one was the hardest so far and I took a little breather before I dug into it, a breather better known as "Trade You." If you're a Walking Dead fan in general and a Negan fan in particular, check it out!
Like I said, for being such a short chapter, this one was tough to get into the rhythm of. You don't want to know what the first draft looked like. Not easy making so much from the movie seem fresh, but I think I got it to work. The title, in case you're wondering, is Latin that translates roughly to "save us from danger" and is part of a chant taken from "Whisper" by Evanescence. If angsty emo goth rock is your thing, give it a listen.
Enjoy!
The sun had vanished and the last of the light was fading from the sky. Connor checked his weapons one last time and looked to Murphy and Rocco. "Ready?" he asked.
They both nodded and the three of them got out of the car. Pappa Joe's house was farther up the street, and the lights over the sidewalks flickered into life in twos and threes with the vanishing daylight, illuminating long driveways up to enormous residences with sweeping lawns and aglow with vanity lights. It was eerily quiet with not even a breath of wind, just the steady hum of the streetlights to break the silence.
Rocco led the way up one of the long driveways, through the immaculate landscaping around the back of a large, elegant house. "There's gotta be an alarm system in a place like this," Murphy muttered.
"There is," Rocco replied softly. "Don't worry, I know the code."
They crept to the basement door and Murphy jimmied the lock with his knife, then they went inside...
Smecker hurried away from Distephano, his mind racing. It was a set-up. The brothers were walking right into a trap. If he was going to be in time to help them, he had to think fast.
He went back to the taxi waiting for him outside and gave the driver Yakavetta's address, trying to form a plan. In the movies, now would be the time to call for back-up, but that was hardly an option right now. And the options available were flimsy at best. The MacManuses would be outnumbered as it was, and one lone man couldn't hope to succeed where three were bound to fail.
The cab stopped at a red light and he gave a huff of impatience, looking out at the line of traffic. His eyes fell on a car parked across the street, with a provocatively dressed woman leaning in through the passenger side window trying to close a deal. He stared at her without seeing for a moment, then drew out the list of Yakavetta's associates. He read through the names and information provided until he hit upon one that read "Joey Bevo." It had stuck out in his mind for the handwritten note scribbled beside the name: go-getter.
It was a long shot, but it just might work...
It was dark in the basement, but a little flashing light and a small beeping noise led them to the keypad for the alarm system. Murphy flicked his lighter to illuminate the numbers and Rocco punched in a code. The alarm beeped three times, and he cursed. "Motherfucker changed the fuckin code!"
"Are ye sure?" Connor asked.
"Of course I'm fuckin sure!" He entered the numbers again, but the alarm kept beeping. "Shit! Fuck! What the fuck do we do?"
The alarm beeped three more times, then went off.
The sound was oddly reminiscent of the fiasco at Reg's house, but this wasn't an ambush on a few bouncers and drug dealers. This was the fucking lion's den, and judging by the hurried footsteps echoing through the ceiling, the whole pride was there to answer an attack. Murphy stowed the lighter again and the three of them scrambled to draw weapons and move to favorable positions. The darkness in the room was claustrophobic, pressing in on all sides with the thundering footfalls lending to the feeling, and the air was charged with unease and the first traces of panic. They stumbled and collided with each other in their efforts to regroup, cursing in whispers and fumbling blindly through the blackness—
A door burst open somewhere in the gloom and several shapes filled the chink of light from the hallway beyond. Connor, Murphy and Rocco leaped aside and Connor fell, landing on his injured leg and swearing with pain.
"In here!" one of the shapes yelled. "In the base—"
Murphy fired and the bullet caught the man in the head; he fell to the ground and two of his fellows stepped over him into the room, drawing guns.
Connor staggered to his feet as one of them hit the lights, blinding the intruders with the sudden glare. They got off several rounds that were deafening in the enclosed space, but the three of them returned the shots and finished them quickly. The bodies had barely hit the floor before Connor urged, "C'mon! Get a fuckin move on!"
They moved out into the hallway, tense and alert; Rocco motioned them along, and as they moved as silently as their urgency would allow, four men crept up behind them.
Connor was at the rear of the group; one of Yakavetta's men struck him over the head with the butt of his pistol and he fell again, both guns tumbling from his hands. Murphy turned to the assailants, preparing to shoot, but a second darted forward, slamming him against the wall. A third wrestled one gun away from him and punched him in the face when he raised the other; Murphy went for his knife but the man pinning him reached it first, yanking it from the sheath and pressing it to his throat.
"Murph!" Connor yelled. He made a grab for one of the fallen guns, and the goon that jumped him kicked him in the stomach then picked up the weapons. "You got him?" he asked the fourth man.
"I got him," he replied, having wrestled Rocco to the ground and standing with a foot on his chest and a gun pointed at him. "Rocco," he said, as amiably as if greeting a friend, "Pappa Joe wants a word with you..."
The old man could hear the screams all the way outside, echoing through the night like the howls of wounded dogs. Men such as these were always tearing each other apart in their power struggles and it was a wonder they ever needed his help in disposing of a rival. Not that he looked at it as helping. If anything, these crime lords were making his work easier, the Lord's work, smiting evil and spilling the blood of the wicked.
He drew a cigar out of an inside pocket of his coat, trimmed it neatly with a penknife, then put it between his lips. Next he took out a book of matches and struck one, lighting the cigar before shaking out the flame and putting the spent match back in his pocket. He stood smoking calmly, watching the house and listening to the screams. From his vantage point he could see down the long driveway and across the back of the house, alert to every movement. Something caught his eye and he squinted to make it out— he would have to break down and get eyeglasses soon. A woman in a short black dress was making her way up the driveway, fluffing her hair and lighting a cigarette.
The old man swore under his breath. He would have to move in faster than he'd planned.
He crossed the yard with stealth and agility that belied his age and went to the utility meter on the side of the house. He followed the cables leading away from it, studying them closely for several minutes, then he drew a knife and cut two thick wires. He put the knife away and went to the door on the terrace, taking out a set of lockpicks and working on the door for a moment before there was a soft scraping noise like a key turning; he opened the door and went inside, catching a man unawares and slashing his throat before he even knew what was happening...
It happened as fast as a bullet sped from the chamber. Connor, Murphy and Rocco put up what resistance was possible in a storm of fear and fury, but they were already injured and it didn't take much to overpower them... Cuffed. Beaten. The wounds they had only just tended the day before were particularly vulnerable points Pappa Joe's men didn't mind exploiting. The echoes of the gunshot competing with Rocco's screams as Pappa Joe himself shot off another finger soon dissolved into sheer bloody panic. Then Yakavetta raised his gun one more time, and the three of them had a split second to realize what was about to happen before he shot Rocco in the chest...
Smecker straightened his curly wig one more time as he approached the front door of the house. Steady, Paulie... He hadn't been undercover in years, and he had a feeling only dumb luck would carry the day this time. He knocked, hoping someone exceptionally stupid would be on the other side of the door, and his prayers were answered in the form of an exceptionally horny young man not inclined to look too closely past the hair and makeup. Now for a little namedropping, and maybe his gamble would pay off...
It did. The kid bought the story and led him into the house. After all, who would turn down a free hooker? And like any good hooker worth a decent trick, Smecker played the part to perfection, teasing his mark with the thought of a good time—up until he shot him, at least.
He approached the body cautiously, gun still trained and ready while still trying to wrap his mind around what he had done. No doubt about it, the guy on the floor was dead as disco. Smecker picked his fallen wig up and set it back in place, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Agent Myers's words from so long ago rang true in his memory; he had crossed the line now, and there was no going back...
It was quite liberating.
Footsteps carefully muffled in high heels, he stole through the house in search of the MacManuses. It was strangely quiet, and he'd been sure he heard faint screams from outside... He gunned down a second man and crept up on a third, the acrid smell of blood reaching his nostrils as he moved in closer.
The man's throat had been cut from one ear to the other. Before Smecker could make another move, there was a blunt pain at the back of his head and everything went to black...
It took forever, but Murphy managed to get his chair upright again after launching himself to the floor beside Rocco, helpless to do anything but watch as their friend choked on his last breath. Neither he nor Connor could help looking to his body every few seconds, shock and pain doing their best to smother logic and reason. They had to get free, had to escape. For Rocco.
Connor slipped the handcuffs binding one ankle loose from the chair leg as Murphy braced his left hand against the rung on the back of his chair. They couldn't think about it, there was no other way...Connor raised his foot and smashed the heavy heel of his boot against his brother's hand, the crack of fragile bones mingling with the cries Murphy tried to muffle into the collar of his shirt. He tried not to look as Murphy slid what used to be a working hand from the cuffs, focusing instead on getting his other leg free, and Murphy pushed the pain to the back of his mind as he got to his feet and stomped at the chair until it broke, releasing his right hand and wrenching the chair rung loose for a makeshift weapon.
One of Pappa Joe's men came back, and they fell on him with a savage bloodlust born of grief and vengeance. No swift execution in the midst of their rage, but such was their attack the man didn't die slowly either, and once he was dead Murphy checked his pockets for a handcuff key.
Freed of their bonds and with blood congealing at fresh wounds, the brothers tended to the fallen. They dragged the henchman's broken corpse to the side of the room and set Rocco's chair back on its legs. Exchanging not a word as they each drew a penny from their pockets, they set the coins in their friend's eyes and knelt to pray.
"And shepherds we shall be, for Thee, my Lord, for Thee..."
The old man paused in the basement doorway, listening intently. Two men knelt before the body of another, heads bowed as they prayed as one, and he knew those words...
"Power hath descended forth from Thine hand..."
Someone else had entered the room. They snatched up the guns they had taken from Pappa Joe's man and turned, poised to fire on the stranger in the doorway. He didn't look the least bit perturbed, merely taking the cigar from his mouth and beginning to speak.
"That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command..."
They lowered the guns uncertainly, watching as the old man stepped into the room. It wasn't possible. It wasn't fucking possible, yet how could it be anyone else?
The old man finished their prayer—the prayer he taught them as children—and reached out to them; already numb with shock, they neither believed nor doubted as they laid eyes on their father for the first time in twenty years.
Now I know what you must be thinking. "First time in TWENTY years? But the boys are twenty-seven and they've NEVER seen their father...this doesn't sound like canon..." And you'd be right, my dears, but I've got other things in mind. It's just a minor thing, but if the divergence offends you, feel free to stop reading. If, on the other hand, you don't mind mixing up a few secondary points and you want to see what I've got in the works, I'll see you back here soon. Maybe sooner than you think...
